


Don't Look Down

by chinesebakery



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, G&Ts from M&S, Happy Ending, Missing Scenes, Sarcasm, absent friends, defence mechanisms, guinea pigs, hot priests, ish, sisterly cruelty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-01-12 05:54:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18440384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chinesebakery/pseuds/chinesebakery
Summary: I like my relationships skindeep. Just close enough to touch, no risk of real harm taken or inflicted. This one's different, though (it's a love story).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *blows off the dust from keyboard* Heyyy I wrote a thing! It's been a while. 
> 
> This is going to be canon-compliant with a happy-ish ending.
> 
> Thanks to Sherlockian for beta-reading!

I don't believe anyone would ever describe me as avid churchgoer. I only pop in for the occasional funeral, and since my social circle is rather narrow, those are few and far between. Today's different though. No one has died – I just happen to be here to repay a debt to a priest. A literal debt, don't get me wrong.

It may not look like it but I swear I'm making an honest effort – this really isn't my thing. The singing is nice, I guess, though not particularly rousing. 

The decor, on the other hand, is pleasantly dramatic. Every painting is a hue of agony, pain and despair, framed with gold. It's all very bleak, but the point is made and the imagery sticks.

And then, there's the priest. It's kind of the same thing – the discourse is what it is, the outfit's on the showy side, but the man is truly, undeniably attractive. Even the black eye looks good on him. Lends him a little danger. It's entirely my fault he got the shiner, by the way. It's a long story.

This goes one for a few moments until he's looking my way and our eyes are locking. Not to knock his priestness or anything, but the last time someone stared at me this way from the other end of the room, we were tearing each other's clothes in the loo within the next 15 minutes. This might not be entirely appropriate for a religious office, is all I'm saying. He's the first to look away, of course, but instead of pretending nothing just happened, as one does, he's fumbling with words, looking so adorably flustered I'm frankly offended.

_ Ooh, bless me father. _

I don't do that anymore, though. Don't get me wrong, I  _ have _ sinned quite a lot, but I'm turning over a new leaf. Focusing on my business and bettering myself. I've picked up new hobbies. All the existing hobbies, I've tried at least once. Well, I haven't done  _ church _ yet but I might look into it now – I kind of like the view.

I'm definitely over sex though. I don't even miss it. So many terrible decisions in my life could have been avoided if I'd quit earlier. It was the right decision. The best decision I ever made.

I wait in line to greet the priest when he's finished talking. His smile is  _ ridiculous _ .

***

It turns out I'm not over sex at all. 

It's a very slippery slope. I start googling for wholesome information about celibacy and priesthood in general – just to stay on top of things. Before long I'm watching some weird german porn featuring a bunch of sinners in dire need of punishment and their serviceable priest. It's not very good but you've got to admit, the internet never disappoints. Although the outfits are rather mediocre.

I didn't _plan_ on fancying a priest, I'm not an idiot. 

He's just not what you'd imagine a priest would be – he's too attractive, too bouncy and sweary. There's something definitely unchurchy about him, too. It's probably the mid-morning lukewarm G&T. Or it might be the way he looks at me like he can see under my clothes, and under that too – under the skin, under the jokes, under the deflections. 

***

My sister comes to see me at the café the next day. This is an almost unprecedented event.

If my sister and I ever talked anymore, Claire would certainly have a lot to say about me and the priest. I can just see her in my mind's eye, her jaw setting a fraction tighter, her eyes rolling upward for a dramatic second. Then she would say something like:

_ "This is Year Nine all over again. Please try not to get the man fired or arrested." _

Or:

_ "This is taking issues with one's father a little far, even for you." _

Or, if she meant to cut right to it: 

_ "At least there's one jittered partner that won't throw Himself into traffic."  _

She was never one to mince words, my sister, and she's got a perfect aim. It's one of the things I admire most about her, actually. Most conversations with her leave me yearning for strong alcohol and a proper lie down. God, I've missed her. 

We haven't talked for about a year. She believes I tried to seduce her sleazebag of a husband, which, honestly,  _ ugh _ . 

Sometimes, when I'm bored or really lonely, I recite the list of my own shortcomings in my head in Claire's best passive-aggressive tone. It makes me feel closer to her.

Maybe I shouldn't have punched her husband in the face. It felt good, though, and no one was ever as deserving. 

I bet Claire secretly enjoyed it even more.

***

There was a time when Hilary’s was a minor sensation in the neighborhood because Boo walked into the bike lane right in front of our door. 

For a few days, people left flowers by the entrance, with store-bought cards full of generic words. There was the occasional ten-page long rambling letter from somebody who'd barely exchanged ten words with her but felt her passing really deeply.

Then the flowers stopped coming and everyone went back to their lives. They forgot about Boo. We're not all this lucky. 

The priest believes that life is changed and not ended – well,  _ I _ think that's a convenient bedtime story people tell themselves because reality is anything but convenient. Death is just so horribly  _ final. _ But the worst part is that you never stop glancing at the corner your friend should be sitting in whenever something's funny or tragic or both, and you don't ever get to wake up in the morning and immediately remember you won't see your mother today, or any other day.

Sometimes I wish I'd had the guts to leave the café to run itself into the ground. That self-punishment wasn't so damn appealing. The way things are going, I'll be running this damn place for the rest of my life.

***

My father got me a counselling session for my birthday. 

_ My father got me a counselling session for my birthday.  _

I honestly want to stop people in the street to tell them so because who doesn't need an occasional reminder that other people have it worse than they do? Everyone deserves to have their day brightened by a stranger from time to time. 

It quickly turns out to be a complete waste of time – the therapist is useless. Absolutely incapable of giving the simplest of advices. How hard can it be to tell someone not to fuck a priest? 

If a random woman were to tap me on the shoulder at the bus stop and say, "Hey, there's this priest that I like. He looks at me like he can see things about me nobody else is seeing, clear as day, and he's not even a little bit put off! It's stirring parts of me I didn't know were still in operation but also, he's a  _ priest. _ What do you think I should do?" I would have no qualm whatsoever in telling her to turn around and run, to not, under any circumstance, fuck the priest, because life is hard enough and no one needs this kind of drama. And I would tell her that for free.

Leave it to my Dad to send me to a crooked therapist for my birthday. She won't even let me get the money from the voucher back. 

It doesn't matter. He only got me the wretched thing because he thinks I need to talk about Boo and I won't. I just don't talk about Boo.

I wish people would leave it the hell alone. 

***

I think about the priest all the time. It's infuriating, how much I think about him. I even skim through the Bible he gave me – I take it in the bath and get a little thrill of defiance from reading it naked. 

I try to memorize all the bits that don't make sense to pester him about it later.

Things might be platonic between us, but they're not sexless. The other day, he touched my arm over my sleeve and I was instantly turned on. And we're not talking  _ a 'Gee, this gentleman looks fine, I wouldn't mind getting a piece of that sometime' _ but rather a  _ 'I'm dying to find out what's going on under this cassock of yours, right here, right now, I don't give a damn if Pam and the youthie band are watching, just say the word' _ . I wonder if he knew that.

I'm not above using cheap tricks. There are very few guys who turn down a chance at meaningless sex with a reasonably attractive semi-stranger, and those who do tend to be the ones who leave you drunken voicemails three years later to let you know they can't maintain an erection unless they're thinking about you.

Priests have sex. A lot of them do. I know because I googled it.

For a few minutes, I toy with the idea of doing something crass – my repertoire is rather extensive – but in the end, I settle on drawing another bath. 

I wonder if he thinks about me too sometimes, when he's alone in his big, dark church. What would he even think about? He knows next to nothing about me and what he does know is mostly lies. It shouldn't bother me. 

This is how I like my relationships. Skindeep, just close enough to touch, no risk of real harm taken or inflicted.

*** 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to diner_drama and fitzandjemma for taking over beta-reading duties.

"But how do you decide what's just gory fables and what's a hard-set living guideline?"

"Common sense?" the priest suggests, wrinkling up his nose.

We're sitting outside after dark in the church's gardens, sipping on the canned G&Ts I brought as a pagan offering, and I have to admit I'm greatly enjoying my stunt as a backseat theologian.

"I'm just saying, that's an awful lot of slavery, rape and torture for a book to be held as any kind of moral truth. I'd bet the Game of Thrones series doesn't have nearly as many human sacrifices."

"It probably has  _ some _ human sacrifices."

"What about the talking donkey, though?"

"Again, not a clue." He shrugs and watches me for a moment, his smile softening. "The Bible is like everything else. You take from it whatever helps you to live. I'm sure some people find talking animals comforting."

The air is pleasantly mild and the light coming from his chambers is shining on our faces in a flattering way. Everything about this feels like a  _ moment. _ If we were in a movie, the scene could only end with hungry kisses or tears of despair. 

He looks blissfully calm while I'm fighting with myself to stop my breath from hitching, to keep my trepidation at least moderately in check. I can't remember when I last gave myself time to  _ want _ someone like this before anything happened. 

"To talking donkeys," I concede, raising my can. "I'm partial to a shit-talking marsupial myself."

He chuckles softly, keeping his eyes in mine, and I feel it again – the rush of validation I get for every smile, every hint of laughter I can pry out of him. 

The more we beam at each other, the longer the silence stretches, the more certain I am that it's not just me who's feeling this. And if I leaned forward and combed through the short hair at the nape of his neck, I'm almost positive he wouldn't leap off his chair and run to Pam for help. 

I try him with my words, with the urging in my eyes, but I can't make the decision for him. And when he brings us back to safe territory, I let him. 

Friends? Sure, we can be friends. Friends who are quite terrible at concealing how much they long for each other, apparently.

He never answered the question, though.  _ What if you meet someone you love? _

***

We're walking down the street together, so close we could as well be holding hands, and looking so like a perfectly assorted couple that people are smiling at us in an infuriatingly knowing way.

When he's wearing jeans and a sweater, looking like the fine specimen of a man that he is, it's impossible to tell what he's chosen for himself.

I quite enjoy following him on all kinds of errands and making a fool of myself to make him laugh, pretending we're something we're not, but the moment he steps inside Hilary's, the mood changes. 

"Not a fan of guinea pigs?" I ask as he scans around the room, an odd look on this face.

"No, no, it's just – it's not what I... It doesn't really look like...  _ you, _ is all."

"That's because I hid all the inverted crucifixes in the back, just in case you popped by. I was just being considerate." His smile is unsure, and the pang of uneasiness I felt when he first stepped in is now rippling up and down my stomach.

When Hilary nestles into this shirt, his expression turns to evident delight and I can't help but feel a twinge of jealousy, even as I'm melting at the absurdly endearing sight. Hilary  _ never _ furrows into my shirt like this. She doesn't like me much, in general – it's like she  _ knows. _

Two cups of tea are cooling between us but I'd much rather pour myself a generous glass of wine.

This companionship isn't comfortable, though. It's constricting, actually, as if the threads I've kept carefully divided until now are knotting together, tighter with each swirl of the spoon in his cup. He's asking questions I don't want to answer, ignoring my attempts at deflection. Keeps pushing when I wish he would retreat. This perceptiveness of his is more irritating than I realized now I'm running out of jokes, and I don't know how to make him stop.

Swirl, swirl, swirl.

"Tell me what's going on underneath there," he presses, and I all but snatch Hilary from his hands.

***

Have you ever had a friend who knew everything there is to know about you and loved you anyway?

I did. I had Boo.

She was my best friend even before we turned eleven and puberty started wrecking our little girls' brains with constant, nagging thoughts of boys, sex, attractiveness real or perceived and the unfortunate size of our boobs (for diametrically opposed reasons).

Boo was such a good friend I never tried to make another. I never once thought I might one day need a spare.

We opened the café together because we were each the only company the other could tolerate for the approximate length of a workday. She was so funny. The funniest person I ever met.

Not a lot of people know what truly happened. I only told her boyfriend and Claire. Well, the bank manager, too.

The bank manager was a trooper, but the boyfriend cried harder than I’d ever seen a human being cry.

Claire just… looked at me. Pinched her lips, sort of patted my arm. The covert glances, the ones  she throws my way when she thinks I won't notice, grew a fraction harsher. She only mentions it when she thinks I've done something terrible again.

See? This is why I don't talk about Boo.

***

I can feel Hilary's little heart beating furiously between my hands as she wriggles about, eager to get back to her cage and away from me. She was never this restless when Boo held her.

"I'm not being churchy. I'm just trying to get to  _ know _ you," the priest insists, his tone pleading.

Swirl, swirl, swirl. It's my turn to fidget, but I have no safe little cell to crawl back into.

"Well, I don't want that." It's not entirely a lie. The last thing I need – the very last thing in the world that I need – is his fucking pity. His fatherly solicitude.

_ Keep that for your flock, Father. You know what I want from you. _

I send him back to God the way others might tell him to go to hell and I can tell he's upset – he's probably never been dismissed by his heart-eyed parishioners. I'd bet they can't get enough of him. They  _ want _ him to know what keeps them up at night, all their faults and defects and regrets, so he'll give them his blessing and absolution. 

I don't want it. I don't want any of it.

His chair scrapes against the floorboard with a deafening sound. As he walks out the door, I glance at Boo's corner and find there's nothing there but an empty chair.

***

I'm not sure what I'm expecting to happen, even as I push open the church door and sit down on a bench at the back. I feel like a kid who's late in class and forgot to do their homework – piteous, painfully self-conscious and hoping against all hope that no one will notice I'm there. 

I join my hands, bow my head, and for about three seconds, I give it an honest try. I wish, I  _ wish _ I believed I could talk directly to God or Mum or Boo – though mostly Mum and Boo – but I know, deep down in the core of my being, that I'm just an idiot sitting by myself in a high-ceilinged room, trying to talk myself out of my loneliness.

I hear it before I have time to plot my escape, the incongruous beat of 'Jenny from the Block'. It's an odd choice of hymn even for an off-duty priest, but it turns out said priest is also quite intoxicated and  _ very _ worked up.

"Fuck you, calling me 'Father' like it doesn't turn you on just to say it," he says, the accusation quite clear – how dare I respond to his flirtation and charm? – and I can't come up with a clever retort because he's not wrong. He's not completely right either: his priesthood is a notable inconvenience, but it's not entirely devoid of interest.

He's talking himself into circles that turn into spirals than lead into quicksand and I don't know how to rescue him from his dark thoughts, his nostalgia, his sorrow – nor if it's my place to do so.

"Do you know there was a man who wanted to be a saint so badly he castrated himself just to stop himself…?" he asks, eyes wide, his smile wavering. "You know. Whack!" 

He gestures wildly around his midsection to get the point across. If I ever needed confirmation that my priest has been thinking about me  _ that way, _ well. I have it now. Not exactly a surprise, although I wish he wasn't so torn up about having thoughts and feelings that were, one might say, part of a divine plan for humanity. But I can tell this is not the right time to grill him on God's design and motivation. 

***

Of all the places men have dragged me to under false or not-completely-accurate pretenses, an actual confessional is certainly a first. I only accept this ridiculous premise to humour the priest in his time of need, but something rather unfortunate happens when I sit down in that wooden box. All the complicated feelings of loss and grief and guilt I've been carrying around for hours – years, really – come crashing back, and I just… start talking. It's disordered, mostly nonsensical and full of convenient ellipses, but at least it's honest.

When he tells me to kneel a chill courses through me, and my brain calls it quits, paralyzed by the unexpected mixed messages. Don't get me wrong, it's not my first time being asked to kneel before a man, but there's a lot of cognitive dissonance going on tonight. 

I can't read his eyes beyond his own lack of understanding of what is going on. But when he kneels in turn, there's no penance asked and no prurient demands.

The first kiss tastes like everything I ever wanted, like releasing a breath held too long – it's comfort and joy and relief but it's also tainted, both with my long-unspoken grief and his hesitation. The electricity is there, vital and inescapable, but my brain doesn't shut off the way it should. The emotion from before doesn't retreat as far as I will it to. 

And when the painting falls from the wall with a thundering thud, we jump off each other like we've just been caught.

The look on his face. The disappointment, the fear, the disgust. 

I've seen it all before.

***

The taxi ride home is a perfect bokeh blur of flashing lights. My mind is restlessly swerving from thought to thought, too fast for anything to register. My heart's in my throat, my stomach full of pebbles. God, the way he looked at me. Like I was something he should protect himself from.

Through the whirlwind of confusion twirling madly in my head, I manage to grab at one thought and cling to it long enough to react.

I reach for my phone at the bottom of my purse and dial with shaky fingers. It goes straight to voicemail. Of course.

"I am not  _ fine," _ I nearly shout the moment Claire's curt invite finishes playing. "I am very much not  _ fine. _ Why do you say these things to me? Why do you always assume I can take it when you know very well that I have no idea what I'm doing at any given time? You're the one who've got it all figured out. Sure, your husband's a nightmare, but everytime I see you, you've got hotter better guys making goo goo eyes at you left and right. And look at your fucking office! Just look at it!" I pause to sniff ungracefully, rubbing at my face. "How could I be fine? If even _ you _ won't be my friend, then who will?"

***

I text the guy I met at the farmer's market in the short window of time between the day I decided to eat healthier and the one I realized it was way too much work, and ask him what he's up to.

I text the sad, lonely guy who comes to the café every Thursday afternoon to stare at my arse from behind his book with his sad, lonely eyes, and ask him what he's up to.

I text Claire's hot misogynistic lawyer to remind him that I'm not his client since my weasel of a brother-in-law still hasn't pressed charges so there's no ethical rule to break, and ask him what he's up to.

I write about a dozen different texts to the priest ranging from conciliatory to desperate, and thankfully send none of them.

I don't get an immediate reply from anyone, which is a blow to my ego on top of everything else. In the end, I just put down my phone and resolve to try and get some rest.

***

I must have fallen asleep after all the tossing and turning because my next bout of consciousness finds me in the confessional once more. The tone of the priest's voice when he tells me to kneel sends shivers down my spine and heat rushing to my cheeks, but there's no sadness, no confusion and no shock. This is what I came here for, and I do as he says.

When the curtain tears open, he's naked from the waist down, the logistics of his attire somehow sorted out. His eyes are darker, angrier, like he's mad at me for making him want this, and it turns me on even more. 

I kneel a little straighter then and he takes the hint, stepping forward until all I have to do is bend my head and just like that, his vows are broken.

It feels so real, too real, in that eerie way dreams usually do. There's no threat of distraction, no parasitizing thought. I can feel  _ everything, _ the warmth and the softness of him, the weight of his hand resting on the side of my head, the tension coursing through him, but it's the look on his face, mouth agape and eyes wide, that really tears through me.

I'm shocked awake when the first rush of pleasure hits. My eyes burst open in the darkness and it's all I can do to hold onto the dream until the last tremors subside. 

If there  _ is _ a God out there keeping tracks of all my failures and transgressions, that dream had better not count – He should bloody well know by now that my subconscious can't be trusted.

I wonder if my priest is lying awake in his big, dark church, pondering whether or not he should chop off his bits.

On the bedside table, the blue dot on my phone is blinking hopefully. I should know better than to set myself up for disappointment, too.

***


	3. Chapter 3

In the morning, everything is very still. There's a weight to this anguish, slowing my every move, sagging my shoulders and darkening the shadows under my eyes. 

The harder I try not to think about him – what he must be doing right now, how he might be feeling about me – the more his expression of complete horror superimposes over my vision. It's agonizing, knowing that he must regret that brief taste of what could have been between us, perhaps lamenting meeting me altogether.

The salacious message from the hot misogynist comes with an obligatory pang of disappointment, but it's pleasantly worded and enthusiastic enough for me to consider the offer. I know exactly what a night with him would entail,  I've lived it many times. It's so familiar, in fact, that I can map it out with utmost precision. And maybe that's exactly what I need. A good and proper shag with no guilt, no remorse, minimal small talk and zero emotional commitment – not to mention, very little risk for immediate divine reprobation.

I have a long, cathartic cry in the shower, encouraged by the water already pouring down my face, before I text him back and agree to meet him for drinks in the evening, on the assumption I make it through the day.

The early summer sun is an offense to my foul mood. If you can't count on London's grim weather when you really need it, what can you trust?

***

My sister calls me back as I'm opening the café and in typical Claire fashion, cuts right to the thick of things.

"What's going on with you?" she demands to know.

"Oh, hello, Claire, lovely hearing back and good morning to you, too."

"I'm running late for a meeting, but if you're having a crisis I can be there in–"

"I am  _ not _ having a crisis," I scoff. 

"You're clearly not  _ not _ having a crisis," she points out, and I can hear her heels stomping rhythmically on the other end of the line like an angry metronome.

"Are you trying to confuse me into something?"

"Are you hungover? How much did you have to drink last night?"

"I'm not hungover! I had  _ one _ drink, and I didn't even–"

"Is it drugs, then?" 

_ "Yes. _ That's exactly it, you've found me out. It all started with Mum's good coughing syrup when I was eight–"

There's the long-suffering sigh she's mastered over years of practice. "It's about a man, isn't it? What have you done this time? Is he married? Jesus Christ, I thought after last time you would be–"

"Stop, just, stop!" I gasp, pressing my eyes tightly shut. "Look, I'm sorry I called you, clearly that was a massive miscalculation on my part. Everything's great. Please carry on with your day."

The stomping abruptly stops. "Fuck it, I'm coming over," Claire announces, her voice laced with grim determination. It's  _ terrifying. _

"No! No, no. No need, I–"

"You called me expressly to let me know you were unwell, so you don't get to brush it off as if it never happened the moment I get a hold of you."

"Look, I just had a momentary lapse in morale. Nothing  _ bad _ happened, I promise. I was feeling a bit down on myself, is all, but I slept on it and I'm okay now. I swear. I'm sorry I got you worried. Please don't upend your day over me, it's completely unnecessary. I'll see you tomorrow morning at Dad's for tea."

"Are you sure you're not–"

"Absolutely sure. I'm okay. I'm great. I'm  _ fine _ ." I wince at the unfortunate choice of words and rush to the conclusion, hoping she won't have noticed. "Thank you for calling. Have fun at your meeting and see you tomorrow."

"You would tell me if–"

"I would, absolutely, yes. Bye, now."

Great, now I need a stiff drink and a mid-morning nap.

***

I go through the motion – pour some wine, get in the shower, shave everything, moisturize even the hard to reach places, have another glass of wine, dig out the good lingerie from the very back of my knickers drawer and hope the moths haven't gotten there first, find the faux leather skirt that makes my arse look nice, lipstick, more wine, lipstick again, hair, and finally I'm ready to go.

Thankfully, the lawyer is just as hot as I remembered, and funny enough that I don't have to fake enjoying his company. It helps that the cocktails are good and the bartender isn't skimping on the alcohol. Everything is going according to the plan and I'm barely even thinking about the priest at all.

***

I'm sitting on the bus on the way to my father's house, gulping sparkling water straight from the bottle and keeping my eyes open only to slits because to keep the light from hurting my head. I know I must look the way I'm feeling, which is considerably worse than I did when I left my flat, and I wasn't doing too hot then to start with. I'm vaguely aware of several looks and smirks pointed in my general direction but I can't muster the energy to respond when I have to concentrate on sheer survival.

The evening, overall, was a success. The sex was good. Very good. Excellent, even. My lawyer is performing at top-class level, that's always good to know. I didn't want the nine orgasms but I had them anyway, so there.

I get off the bus and start pitifully teetering about until Claire spots me in the distance from behind the enormous arrangement of truly,  _ truly _ hideous flowers she's carrying. As she takes me in, her expression immediately sags into a mask of pure consternation.

This is going to be a fun morning.

***

It barely takes an hour for my day to go from bad to completely unsalvageable. I've been broken up with a few times before, but this is my first time being dumped by a priest at the bus stop while feeling both seasick and torn with guilt and honestly, this isn't an experience I would recommend to anyone.

Even as he demands that I stay away from him and his wretched church, he's staring at me as if he would rather drag me to the nearest confessional for what would certainly be the saddest makeout session in the history of mankind. I almost say a number of humiliating things like "I'm sure there are ways around this" and "nobody had to know" and "just one time", but he doesn't let me. 

I wonder if someone is noticing this unlikely tableau we're creating. A priest, looking dejected, miserable and frankly quite horny, and the hungover and heartbroken girl silently begging him not to be erased from his life. For the record, I'm pretty horny as well – he always looked so good in a cassock. Truthfully though, I would like nothing more than to wrap my arms around him and hold on for just a moment, but even the friendliest of hugs is off the table now. I knew we wouldn't last more than a week.

To make matters worse, today's a Wednesday and Wednesdays are the busiest day of the week the café. Chatty Wednesdays, we call them. You buy something, you have to talk to someone you don't know. It's the rule, and everyone around here abides to it.

I came up with the idea one day when loneliness hit me harder than usual – it was a muted but tangible kind of pain, like a blister to my entire body. Boo was gone, the café wasn't doing well and Claire and I weren't speaking at the time. In fact, I realized I hadn't spoken to anyone for days, save for Joe, the older gentleman who comes every morning for a cup of tea. Good old dependable Joe. Misery loves company, and Chatty Wednesdays are an undisputed hit. 

On this particular Wednesday, though, I'm not in the mood to be a pleasant and outgoing hostess. I snap at Joe and immediately feel wretched about it. I snap at the sad, lonely guy who wants to explain at length why he didn't immediately respond to my text the other night. I almost snap at the bank manager who chose today of all days to come and say goodbye. Thankfully, my sister rescues me from more unfortunate interactions when she calls screaming about a crisis of her own. If this turns out to have anything to do with her office being huge, her career going too well or all the men in her life being exceedingly taken with her, I swear to God she's the next one getting punched her in the face. I have a lawyer now. He'll deal with it.

***

"How could he do this to me!?" Claire laments, her voice the highest I've ever heard it. "My life is ruined.  _ Ruined! _ I cannot – I have to cancel all my appointments for weeks to come–"

"Have you considered that you could possibly be overreacting?"

_ She's not overreacting.  _

The lopsided bob is really,  _ really _ not doing her any favors. In fact, I can't remember seeing her look this distractingly bad, and for someone as stuck-up and controlling as she is, Claire's gone through a baffling number of unfortunate self-reinventions over the years, including a goth phase, a full neon chic wardrobe, an inexplicable tangerine leather jacket, an ashy blonde pixie cut that gave her the healthy glow of a rapidly decaying zombie and of course, the electric blue skin tight jumpsuit I'm positive Dad still has nightmares about.

But that's not the important thing. 

The important thing is that she called me in her time of crisis.  _ Me. _ If that's what not being friends with your sister is like, I think I'm good with it, all things considered.

"It's going to be months before I look like a person again." 

"I assure you, you still look like a person," I say earnestly, deciding here and there that I will  _ never _ make a joke about this as long as we both live. There are mascara stains under my sister's eyes. My sister, whose wit and unflinchingness has struck fear in peers and teachers alike since secondary school.

"Tell me the truth," she demands, and I struggle for words, unable for once to lie to her face. 

_ It's horrendous. _

"It's horrendous," she concludes on her own, and this is how Claire and I end up running through the streets of London on our way to make a very misguided scene at Antony's salon. It's ridiculous and cathartic and stupid and the most fun I've had with my sister in many years.

"If you want to change your life, change  _ your life," _ Antony says with completely earned self-righteousness, and this is when I know she's finally going to leave Martin. I'm so happy for her. She deserves to be with someone as weird and brilliant as she is, who challenges her to have some fun sometimes, and if that's a goofy Finn she's determined to pretend she's not in love with, that's fine with me.

"What's going on with you?" she asks later, and this time, she doesn't mean to ask 'what the fuck have you done now?' – it's just a normal, run of the mill question. It's nice. Friendly, even.

We're sitting together in the sun, still a little giddy from our salon adventure, and I hesitate only a moment before I tell her what's really going on with me. That I've met someone, and he's a priest, and it's very complicated and painful. It feels so good to finally tell someone. Even if it makes her burst her into peals of laughter. I don't blame her. I know it sounds like a joke but it's not, and I think maybe I care about the priest a little more than I feared.

***

I never meant to call the hot misogynist back after the other night. I've reached the conclusion that I've already gotten all the orgasms I can rightfully expect from him. As for his legal counsel, I can't muster the energy to be bothered by Martin's threat of legal action, I don't believe for a second that he will actually go through with it, and even if he did – what's the worst that could happen? I could do time. Maybe I'd even enjoy it. I'm a small business owner, I haven't had a proper vacation in  _ years _ . On top of that, it would be my chance to get well and truly  _ ripped,  _ and my endless collection of hilarious sexual anecdotes would make me popular with the other girls. Bring it, Martin, is all I'm saying.

But I can't stop thinking about the bus stop and the priest's sad hungry eyes and how all that pop knowledge I've gathered about the Bible over the past few weeks will never be put to use again and it's all so unbearable I end up texting the lawyer again anyway. This time, I drop the pretence of drinks and 'legal advice' and invite him straight to my place. I also fast-forward through my grooming routine because I'm short on time and also, I can't bring myself to care as much as I used to. I'm just doing what needs to be done to break from the endless misery of my own priest-related thoughts.

The door rings and I barely have time to put on a trenchcoat on top of my underwear and then I'm face to face with the priest and all that hard work I've put into trying not to feel so wretched over him comes crumbling down.  _ Fuck. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if you've been following this, you may have noticed the chapter count was raised to 5. Next installment is going to be allll about the good bits. Sorry it took a little longer that I expected to get there!


	4. Chapter 4

The priest I'm in love with is at the door, I'm wearing nothing but underwear and coconut oil under my trench coat, and the hot misogynist I'm casually fucking to help me forget the priest is bound to arrive any minute now. This is my life. This ridiculous, lover-hidden-in-the-cupboard vaudeville of a play is happening right now in my flat and there is very little I can do to stop it. 

Fast-forward five minutes, the lawyer is gone, the priest is standing in my living room and staring back at me with frowning disbelief, while my dignity is seriously wounded but not altogether destroyed.

The priest, apparently, is here to explain why he won't have sex with me. To further clarify the reasons why he, an ordained catholic priest, probably shouldn't engage in dirty, sweaty sexual intercourse with a shameless heathen like me –  _ I'm paraphrasing _ – and the more he talks, the clearer it is that we are, in fact, about to do just that. This is the edge of the cliff. 

Did he suspect that when he decided to come here? When he looked up the direction to my place? And when he was sitting on the bus on his way over here, rehearsing his little speech in his head, probably, was he also wondering on some semi-conscious level whether we would first do it in my bed or up against the wall? 

I'm trying to stay calm and let him do the math for himself, but a bomb of joy and lust just detonated in the pit of my stomach and I'm having trouble concealing how agitated I feel. I study his face as he goes through the entire panel of human emotions in the matter of maybe fifteen seconds until finally,  _ finally, _ he understands what is happening. What  _ has _ to happen. 

The soil is loose under our feet and our heads are spinning.

His nod is a little regretful and I know he wishes he was above this, yearns to be impervious to the frantic and primal pull between us, but he's a man and not a saint and all in all, he gave it a solid try. That has to count for something.

He approaches me slowly, carefully, as if I were the one at risk of being spooked when honestly I'm so taut with anticipation I could just burst at any moment. When he starts pulling at the belt of my coat, I consider warning him about what he's about to find, but I don't want to ruin the moment with a  _ 'Sorry, you're not the one I thought I would be fucking tonight'. _ The garment falls open and I kiss him before he can overthink. Just a press of my lips on his, a dare, a question and a prayer altogether. 

The coat falls off my shoulders and I'm standing in my underwear with his hands hovering hesitantly around my shoulders, down my arms and back into my hair. But his kisses – there's nothing remotely shy about the way he kisses me. It's raw, messy and deeply carnal, at once dangerous and painstakingly arousing – he's kissing me like he wants to consume all of me, torment me with pleasure.

Within minutes, we're both panting and the flutter of desire is turning to an ache. I take a step back to let him slide his leg between my thighs and bump into the coffee table, knocking something to the floor. I turn reflexively and realize with horror that something is none other that the Bible he's given me, which is now laying ominously open on the carpet. We both freeze and for a breathless, chilling moment, I'm certain I've done it – I've found the one thing that's going to make him change his mind and run to safety. 

For a moment, he keeps very still against me, his hands burning into my skin and his mouth a breath away from mine, and then his body starts trembling. I'm mortified at the thought that I might have succeeded in making a priest break his chastity vow  _ and _ cry all in the same evening, but the trembling turns to shaking and then he's laughing like it's the most hilarious thing.

"You've gotta admit," he says, resting his forehead against the side of my neck, "He's got a wicked sense of humour."

The relief is so strong, I feel emboldened to test his resolve and begin toying with his collar. "How does this even work? Do you just–"

"Yeah, yeah," he raises his chin obligingly, "just pull–"

"Oh," I beam, and let the little tab falls in a flutter next to us before I set to undo the top buttons of his shirt.

"I can't decide if I wish you were fully dressed so I could take everything off of you or not," he says with a half chuckle. And then he's drawing the strap of my bra down my arms, slowly and deliberately, enjoying my huff of frustration.

"I've thought about this," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "Thought about your tits.  _ A lot."  _ The other strap goes down and I can  _ feel _ his eyes on me.

"Not my most impressive attributes, I'm afraid." I fight to keep my voice steady but his fingers are grazing my breast and I can't breathe properly anymore. My skin feels electric, too-tightly wrapped around my body.

"I don't know about that," he replies, and I can't hold back a moan when he finally leans down to kiss his way down from my throat to my chest. "I have to warn you," he says between tantalizing kisses, his voice tight and shaky. "It's been _a while_ for me and I'm really, really worked up."

"What do you mean, this isn’t an ordinary Wednesday evening for you?" 

"Mmhmm," he chuckles against my skin before giving me a soft bite that has me gasping and buckling at the knees.

"So, I have a serious question to ask you," I say, ready to retaliate. "Would you rather fuck me in my bed, or up against this wall over there?" With my eyes still on his, I point idly to a spot behind my head. "'Cause I would be amenable to both."

"Oh,  _ fuck you,"  _ he says whiningly, looking both amused and genuinely shocked. "Why would you say something like that? I'll have you know, I'm not a young man anymore. If I finish now, there's no guarantee of a second shot anytime soon and this is  _ not _ how I want this to go."

As I begin toying with the fastening of his trousers, my mouth finds the pulse point at his neck. "Oh, but I have faith in you, Father."

***

"I noticed you haven't burst into flames yet." 

I try not to grin too widely but he's flushed and sweaty with his hair pointing in every direction and just looking at him makes the corners of my mouth turn all the way up. I should probably leave it alone for now, but there's no escaping the fact that there's a clerical collar lying somewhere on the floor and a  _ really _ hot priest naked and breathless in my bed.

"I haven't burst into flames," he concedes. "That seems to be a matter of concern to you."

"I just prefer having advanced knowledge of any pyrotechnics or messy phenomenons going on in my flat. I'm barely housetrained, there's no way I could handle that kind of wreckage."

He nods a few times, smiling with just his eyes. "Not a single blaze. Are you disappointed?"

"Did I sound disappointed?" I try not to leer, I really give it an honest try. His skin is warm and soft and I can't seem to stop touching it, all of it. This is really not how I thought this evening would play out, but all things considered, I wouldn't change a thing about it.

I say nothing for a while because what I really want to ask is, 'Are you in love with me yet?' because I think  _ I _ might be and I'm having a hard time coming up with a decent deflection.

"Should I be worried about a grand piano falling on my head when I'm walking down the street?" I ask instead, and I'm rewarded with a short chuckle.

"How would _ I _ know? They don't teach you that in seminary. Besides, you're the one who did the research."

"It said you definitely wouldn’t turn into flames until I did something very wrong. It didn't say anything about  _ me." _

"Well then. I guess you'll just have to risk it."

His face is so open, his eyes impossibly soft, and yet I'm never quite sure I'm reading him correctly.

_ Are you or are you not in love with me? _

"You're doing it again." 

When he frowns, all the fine lines around his eyes draw deeper. I know what he means just from the jumpstart it triggers in my chest. 

"Doing what?" 

"That  _ thing _ you do. It drives me crazy."

"Are you in love with me? You said if we did this, you'd fall in love with me, and I feel like I have a right to know."

It's his turn to hitch a breath and I jump at the chance. The way this man kisses, I can't remember being this completely turned on. It's better than any kind of forbidden sex I ever had, better than nine orgasms in a row – he's demanding every cell of my body to engage and won't settle for anything less.

"Is Pam going to worry if you stay out all night?" My voice sounds like I've been running too fast and too long for my poor lungs to carry out. "She looks the worrying type."

"To be completely honest with you, at the moment, I really don't fucking care."

*** 

"I don't mean to pry," he murmurs against my neck after a long stretch of comfortable silence, and my loose limbs begin to stiffen.

I have no notion of what time it is. It feels like we've been there for days, kissing, making love, resting for a bit, and getting at it again. I  _ knew _ my faith wasn't misplaced.

"I'm not going to force it out of you."

He sounds both sheepish and heartfelt, which should make me wary but in my current state of complete sexual satiety, I'm so mollified that my reflexes aren't working properly.

"I know you said you didn't want me to know you, but I think that ship has sailed," he says with a half-smile. "You can – there's  _ nothing _ you can't say to me."

And then it hits me.

"She told you." 

_ My sister, that wretched pencilhead. _

I sit upright, fired up by an irrational impulse to run away, but he holds onto my waist before I have a chance to go anywhere.

"No! No, no, no, no, no. All she said was she hopes you'll talk to me about Boo, because if you keep not talking about it you'll eventually explode. I take it Boo isn't a guinea pig."

"I don't talk about it."

"I know."

"I can't talk about it."

I hear the sigh but plainly refuse to look at him. 

"Okay." He pulls me back against him, wraps his arms around me again, and I want to fight him off just to make a point but he feels so good, the impulse fades almost instantly.

"I can tell you about Hilary, though, if you like." I pause, enjoying  the look of plain confusion on his face. "Hilary  _ is _ the guinea pig."

"Oh, right. Of course.  _ Hilary's." _

"Don't even think about mixing her up with Stephanie or you'll fatally wound her pride. She's upset enough about having to share a cage with a vulgar hamster, and she can hold a grudge forever. Or, you know, for another 2 to 6 years."

"I'm not worried. I think we might have established a rapport, your guinea pig and I."

"Actually," I start, and immediately feel like I was just doused with a bucket of ice cold water. 

_ Woosh. _

"Actually – she was Boo's. A birthday present, from me. They  _ loved _ each other, those too. I had no idea guinea pigs could bond with humans."

_ Hilary just barely tolerates me. I think she might know it's my fault that Boo's gone. It's like there's an aura of wreckage floating around me and she can sense it more acutely than people. _

"Hey. Don't go." He rubs my cheek with his thumb, his hand feels searing hot. "Don't shut me out now. Please."

***

Boo was so funny. The funniest person I ever met. She was beautiful and unpredictable and insecure and needy and I miss her every moment of everyday.

I never  _ intended _ to have sex with her boyfriend. I'd never even thought about it before the day I caught him looking at me the way I absolutely craved. The way men look at you when there isn't a thing in the world they want more than to fuck you senseless, and they would do anything, anything at all, to get between your legs. 

I wish I could get the same high from tennis, crochet or a really good book, but I'm just not wired that way. This is why I don't do that anymore now. 

It meant nothing to me. Absolutely nothing. I don't even remember much about that night, only the look in his eye when I started undoing his trousers. All I wanted was another hit.

I didn't mean to fuck her boyfriend. She didn't mean to get herself killed.

And yet here we are.

***

I cry for a long time, the longest I've cried in my entire adult life, and he doesn't let go.

He doesn't tell me it's not my fault, or that it fits into His grand plan for us somehow. He doesn't tell me she would want for me to forgive myself. Doesn't complain about being drenched in tears and snot.

But he's there, completely present. He feels so solid and vital that for a stupid moment I think maybe this is what Hilary felt when Boo held her to her chest. Safe and sheltered and so fucking loved.

***


	5. Chapter 5

In the morning, we barely talk. We're still grasping at the monumentality of what happened and there are so many questions floating around us the air is thick with it, but now is not the time. When I follow the trajectory of the first light of morning on the back of his neck with my fingers, he angles his head obligingly to accept my touch. The electricity's still there, so is the tenderness, but it all feels fragile and shivery.

I push the sheets back and lie back with an arm folded under my head to watch him as he puts his dark clothes back on. I can't tell if he's flushed pink from watching me pose so shamelessly naked and languid or because of the way I'm drinking in his every move – probably a bit of both – and I feel very moderately guilty knowing he might carry this moment with him while he performs his function today. Before he leaves me to uncertainty, he gives me a soft kiss that turns into a desperate, hungry one, then another, then another.

***

The wedding is a slow, torturous affair.

"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know," he says as we exchange passionate, clandestine kisses behind my father's house like horny teenagers from opposite sides of the tracks. Hidden from the view of all the wedding guests, I wipe my lipstick from his face, hoping that those stolen moments of intimacy are not just borrowed time.

"Fuck you, then," I say with too-bright a smile, and try not to notice how long it takes for him to grin back.

After the somber homily, my sister runs to find her happiness and I'm left alone in the crowd of unknown guests selected from my Godmother's assortment of very interesting friends. I sip champagne, sneak a few smokes and watch the priest's mood darken out of the corner of my eye. I long for a moment alone with him but he's fast and slippery, always moving in the opposite direction.

It's a very long afternoon.

And when he sits bleakly beside me on the bus stop bench, it's all been written already. Part of me wants to up and run and never hear what he has to say, live the rest of my life in the limbo of a sunny afternoon in my father's garden, the man I love only slightly out of reach.

But I need to say it, and I need him to hear it, too. It doesn't come easily to me, saying those things out loud. It's like they're locked in a place that's inaccessible to me, buried deep under my disdain for triteness and sentimentality.

"I fucking love you."

It feels good to say those words aloud, validating, almost. There's beauty in their uselessness. I enjoy the weight of them as they hang in the air between us. The last time I uttered them out loud, my mother was lying in an hospital bed. They were even more pointless then, and served to convey my terror of losing her more than anything else.

If there is a next time, if I ever meet another person willing to have me with all my faults and quirks and weaknesses, I hope I can find it in me to say those same words not out of pain or desperation but in a moment of shared indulgence and joy.

***

It's a struggle, in the beginning. My emotions run too high or too low with no middle, like a broken thermostat. I see something I find beautiful or sad or, I don't know, lonely-looking, and immediately, the air begins tumbling down my throat and then I'm crying, whenever, wherever, audible sobs, mascara running down my face, the works. I'm walking down the street and, for no discernable reason, get hit with a violent wave of nostalgia that makes my knees wobble and my breath catch in my throat. I'm constantly overwhelmed and not very good at hiding it.

But I get better. I do what I have to do. I survive. I move on.

I don't ask the new owner of Hilary's whether she intends to stick with the guinea pig theme or not. I'm assuming she doesn't but, in a way, I enjoy the precarious status quo. I'm always a bus ride away from knowing what happened to the place Boo and I created with so much love and laughter, but I couldn't bear to see it turned into a bland fucking Starbucks-light.

I don't see my sister very often now she's permanently relocated to Helsinki, but we talk on the phone almost every day so I can tease her about becoming _that_ pregnant woman who brings her laptop to cervix exams and holds a phone conference during labour, probably.

Finland is dark and cold and spectacularly beautiful – it's no wonder Claire feels right at home there. Klare doesn't get any of my jokes so when I visit, she tries to enforce a no-sarcasm rule in their home that I resolutely refuse to abide by. They're so happy together, so _right,_ it's truly sickening.

She rarely ever asks how I'm doing but she always knows.

***

Of all the crowded and overlit Boots in all the towns in all the world, the priest happens to walk into mine, on a rainy Tuesday afternoon when my heels are bleeding through my new shoes and I'm wincing with every step I take.

I notice him before he spots me and I use this tiny bit of advantage to its full extent and run a rapid mental check:

Hair? Okay. Anthony's gone a little scissor-happy when I went last week but the shorter style looks cute. Sophisticated.

Face? I want to say clear and well-rested, but I was up working until the middle of the night. Starting a business alone is exhausting.

Lipstick? Freshly reapplied after tea.

Outfit? Bank manager-compatible and thankfully not painting overalls.

Shoes? Trying to kill me from the bottom up.

It's been over a year since we last saw each other but it feels like a decade has passed. A lifetime. My life is different, now. _I'm_ different. But he doesn't look the way I remember, either. His hair is a little longer, and he's wearing a blue shirt and no dog collar, but it's not just that. There's an unfeigned peacefulness to him that wasn't there before. A serene stillness that falters only a little when his eyes finally catch mine.

He's looking good. _So_ good. Clearly not crushed to the shell of his being by the sole grief of missing me. Not that I expected him to be – he left me for Someone else, after all. From the bottom of the dark pit of sadness and loneliness I sometimes wallowed in since the wedding, I often wondered if he only told me he loved me as a kindness, to let me down easy. Even now, many months later, it's on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he truly meant it.

 _Damn._ If all it takes to undo all the time and energy it took to pick myself up is running into the guy at Boots and being forced to exchange banalities for half a minute before we go back to our lives, I'm going to be so pissed.

_When will it pass, Father?_

I can feel the electricity flowing between us so clearly it's like looking at the fluorescent streams of a plasma ball light, and the ceiling lamp above our heads flickers ominously as we stand frozen, staring at each other before either of us can even think of putting on a smile.

"Hi," I croak when the silence is no longer tenable.

"Hi," he says, extending his hand to me before reconsidering the propriety of a handshake and settling for an awkward little wave. "This is a surprise."

"Promise I'm not stalking you, Father." I mean that as a joke, but his eyes twitches and I immediately regret it. "I'm just here for a little afternoon shopping."

His entire demeanor turns concerned, surveying me with worry and suspicion, as if I might have been casually bleeding out in the middle of the store this entire time and just opted out of telling him so. "What are you– are you feeling okay? Do you need–"

"Oh, I'm fine," I gesture dismissively. "I'm just here for my clean needles and morning after pills. Fun type of cough syrup – you know, the Tuesday usual."

He makes a face of benevolent exasperation, rolling his eyes for good measure, and I raise my hands to shake the pack of plasters I'm holding.

"Blisters," I concede when he still doesn't look completely appeased.

"Blisters," he nods in agreement, his eyes crinkling. "They're the fucking worst."

The silence stretches, and I realise with staggering horror that until I do _something,_ this might very well be the last thing we'll ever say to each other.

"Are you busy or do you have time–"

"If it's okay, I'd really like for us–"

"– have a cup of tea," we finish in unison and exchange a smile – a knowing, personal smile of longing and affection, the kind you give to someone you intimately _know._ Anyone watching this exchange closely could tell we've had sex before. I wonder if they could tell what either of us want from each other. God knows I could do with some pointers.

***

"How's Hilary's?" the priest asks as he swirls the spoon around his cup. It's a nice, safe, icebreaker of a question, but one that calls for several answers, from the factual to the truly personal.

We're sitting in the nearest café from Boots, a trendy little place that looks exactly like all the other trendy little places with apparent bricks, light woods and plants hanging everywhere.  This is what Hilary's probably looks like now, I realise, although I've decided not to care.

"I don't know," I finally reply with a shrug. "I sold the business a few months ago and never looked back. Once the decision was made it was just… over. I guess you could say I was finally done with my penance."

With a blinding smile, he nods, and I feel his approval radiate all the way down to the points of my toes. "I'm glad."

"Me, too. After– after the wedding, I decided it was time to… I don't know. Give happiness a try?"

He nods again, a shorter, stiffer jerk of his chin, and his eyes evade mine. "What happened to Hilary?"

"Oh, we're roommates now. She may hate my guts, but as long as I bring her food, I'm confident she won't try and murder me in my sleep." Hilary's moved on top of my dresser now, right next to Mum. The hamster is living with Jake, now. She and Hilary never hit it off and I was worried for poor little Claire's safety – Jake's first decision as a first-time pet owner was to change her name. "I'm also an auntie, now."

"Oh, that's good news! I mean, it _is_ good news, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes," I beam. "The baby's healthy, my sister is obnoxiously happy, and my soon to be ex-brother-in-law's probably drinking himself into a stupor as we speak, so… all's well that ends well."

"Yeah. All's well that ends well," he repeats a little bleakly, and we let the sentence float in the air for a few seconds, a bittersweet assessment I'm not willing to fight him over.

"What about you? How's… _God?"_

"God is… Well, He's God, isn't he? I'm sure He's okay." He rubs at his face with the palm of his hand, looking flustered. "You know, I– I've been thinking a lot about what you said, that night in the confessional. About wanting someone to make the decisions for you and I guess… I thought it was what I needed too. To become a good man."

"You are a good man," I counter automatically. It's something I've never doubted – he's a good man, but only a man, and I don't know that the expectations he's putting on himself are fair.

"I am now, I think. But before… well, you can guess what kind of man I was."

"Clown fetishist?" I fire back, and take a grounding sip of tea. "Craft beer connoisseur? Sneaker collector?"

"What–" He shakes his head as he laughs, and the crinkling of his eyes sends a pang of longing coursing through me. "It might have come to that, who knows."

"Definitely the clown thing. If memory serves, you have a thing for lipstick," I say, noting the way his eyes immediately fix on my mouth.

For a few moments, he stares back at me fondly, before letting out a sigh. "You know already, I'm sure. I drank a lot. I used women for sex all the time and I couldn't relate to other human beings in any significant way. I was living a meaningless life of materialistic pleasure and instant gratification and I– I was becoming more depressed every day. I mean, seriously depressed. It came to a point where I either made a drastic change or…"

"That was drastic," I say into my tea. And he's right, there's nothing there that I didn't either know or suspect. But the thought of him grappling with deep depression still sends a shiver down my spine.

"A little radical for sure," he shrugs, "but it worked. For a long time, it worked. It rewired my brain, gave me the same sense of purpose and belonging I felt as a choir boy, all those years ago. It was the closest I'd ever felt to inner peace. I could help people, _love_ people, find happiness in the good I spread around me. Until _you."_

It hits me like a punch to the solar plexus, a shooting pain so arresting I have to remember to breathe. I look away, not wanting him to see the tears gathering in my eyes, but the feel of his warm fingers sliding on top of mine brings me back to him.

"I thought my life was perfect the way it was. That it was the _most_ I could expect it to be. But you made me– you _forced_ me to confront the fact that I wasn't a changed man. I was just living a changed life. None of the impulses had gone, I just wasn't acting on them. Until I was."

"Lots of late night confessions with pushy women in red lipstick?" I ask with a forced smile.

He shakes his head sharply as his fingers curl around my hand. "What I mean to say is– thank you. For moving me to be more honest with myself. It's all very confusing at the moment, still." His fingers rake through his hair, creating a disorderly mess. "I'm on a sabbatical, at the moment, trying to figure out… everything. I'm not questioning my faith, but – I need to know whether this life is a calling or a convenient refuge. Not that they wouldn't have me if it was insincere – the church knows to make little arrangements."

"I don't know what to say," I admit. I don't even know what to _think._ The priest might not always be a priest. Everything is changing, for the both of us. I try to stifle the little twinge of hope that instantly stirs in the pit of my stomach.

"That night, before the wedding," he says, his voice dropping to a whisper, "I've thought about it every day for the past year."

"So have I," I admit. I've thought about it in every single possible way. With nostalgia, fondness, gratitude and anger. I've cried a lot, masturbated furiously to the photographic and sensory memories of his face between my legs, tried to recreate the moment with other men as his body double. I never could get it out of my head.

"The way we said goodbye..." He lets out a shuddering smile. "I thought it was the best decision, not just for me, but for the both of us, and that it should be quick – like ripping off a plaster." He winces then, and I notice his eyes are shining, too. "Was it?"

I shake my head in incomprehension. "What are you asking?"

"Are you happy?" His expression darkens as he fumbles for words. "Are you, err, involved with –"

_Fishing for a confession, Father?_

"You said it would pass," I say pointedly, and he grows very still.

"I remember."

I hold his gaze and say, "It hasn't, yet."

"Oh." His face lights up at that, and I recognize the flicker I felt earlier, that impetuous glimmer of hope. It hits me then. _He still wants me._ I don't dare using the words we used at the bus stop even in my own thoughts, not yet. But perhaps I can build up to it.

"Not that I… It _has_ softened, don't get me wrong," I amend. "I'm not crying myself to sleep every night over you."

"Good," he says decisively. "I never wanted to cause you pain." He takes my hand between both of his now, turning it to trace the line inside my palm. "I could never live a double life and leaving the church was so… _terrifying._ And if I _did_ leave and it didn't work out between us, I was afraid I might end up resenting you. I felt like I was stuck at a dead end in a maze, my only option was to go back."

"It wasn't the right time," I say, linking our fingers together as a fresh wave of bittersweet tenderness hits me. "It _still_ isn't the right time." It won't be until he's completely, irrevocably _sure._

"Maybe not," he concedes, "But it might not be too far, now."

We don't talk much after this. His hands are warm around mine and this silent, amiable companionship makes my spirit soar. I don't know what will be between us, six months or a year from now, but I'm inclined to wait and find out.

"What happens now?" I ask as we exit the café to meet the harsh autumn wind. He let go of my hand a few minutes ago but I can still feel the warmth of his skin.

"I don't know," he says, so joyfully I can't help but mirror his blinding smile.

"I don't know either." I really don't. All I know is I want him in my life in any capacity, but a relationship that would combine love, respect, mutual support and the blistering sexual energy of our first night together is my preference. "You should call me. You know, if you ever find yourself in need of some guidance or having an emotional crisis. Or if you want to talk. I'm always there."

Our hug is hesitant for only a few seconds before the ice cracks and we melt into each other. It's a warm embrace full of affection and comfort, suffused with months of longing and a new hope for a future together. And it would be lying to deny there's also an undercurrent of desire – it's always been there, barely concealed below the surface of our mundane interactions.

My hand snakes around his shoulder and when my fingers touch the back of his neck, he hums appreciatively before threading his fingers into my hair. We stay like this for minutes, entangled and happy, with the wind blowing all around us. And when he releases me, his cheeks are flushed pink and his eyes have darkened.

"See you around, Father." I grin before spinning around to walk away. Even though I'm dying to, I know better than to look back or limp on my achy heels and spoil the effect.

_I told you it was a love story._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to sherlockian, diner_drama and fitzandjemma for beta-reading various chapters of this story, and to tinylittletext for their help with last chapter and general moral support.
> 
> And thank _you_ for reading this to the end! 
> 
> I have a couple of AUs in sight for those two, we'll see what comes out of it :)


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